


If Spock Were a Quaker and other Random Thoughts

by Peapods



Series: The Fire Thief [5]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albert knows a few things about Dale Cooper. And Star Trek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Spock Were a Quaker and other Random Thoughts

A very stupid cadet once compared Cooper to Spock. Albert wouldn't admit it unless drugged, drunk, and beaten senseless, but he was quite the fan of _Star Trek_. The comparison wasn't complete B.S., but it still made Albert want to assign the stupid kid to incinerator duty for the rest of his forensic rotation. The smell of burning bodies wasn't a pleasant one.

Dale Cooper was one of the most deeply emotional people on the planet. He just didn't feel the need to project those emotions to everyone around him. Albert would also never admit that sometimes he wished Cooper would project, at least in his direction.

"Damnit, Coop, I know you like this Fair-Trade shit, but sometimes I'd just like Folgers," he grumbled as he put on a pot of coffee one late evening. Their lives were as entwined as their jobs allowed. Which mostly meant they fucked at night and pretended to be friends and colleagues by day. They weren't fooling anyone. Maybe Gordon. But then, that man probably thought "_Rosenfield is fucking Cooper_" was actually "_That rose field is really super_" or something.

"Some would say that speaking to yourself is a sign of some kind of mental illness," came a cheerful voice from the living room. There was the sound of keys, coat, and shoes hitting the table, the back of a chair, and the floor respectively. "However, I've always seen the pastime as one of mental health. Some of us organize our thoughts through dreams and meditations, others through a dialogue with one's self. Even if it is out loud," Cooper appeared in front of him with a dopey grin. "However, if someone answers back I would suggest availing yourself of the Bureau's psychological services."

The short monologue made Albert's lip quirk involuntarily. Cooper was a special kind of nuts that made him a damn good investigator and a damn annoying lover.

"If you're finished with that little routine," Albert said gruffly. "I was going to make some coffee."

"As usual, Albert, you are able to anticipate my wants and needs with an accuracy bordering on precognition."

"The fact that you'd mainline it if the technology existed had more to do with my anticipation of your needs than any hokey spiritual crap."

It was their rhythm. Cooper talked about predestination and free will and visions and Albert was gratuitously offensive and vulgar in response. Albert might want to see a little more of Coop's regard for him, but that didn't mean he was going to turn into a mush-ball in the face of it.

The best place to get it, that emotion, was in bed. Coop liked sex as much as the next man and had the healthy attitude that it should happen frequently and in large doses. Plus, the yoga made him fantastically flexible.

"I'm not gonna ask how you can do this," Albert grunted as he pressed inside Coop. The other man's legs were thrown over, almost clenched around Albert's shoulders.

Coop was breathing shakily, but in some kind of rhythm that opened him up like a fucking flower or whatever trite comparison people that weren't him made. Albert slid, slowly, inexorably forward and they were both quiet in the moment.

"Oh, oh dear, Albert," Cooper breathed, cheeks flushed, mouth red and hanging open.

"Shit, Dale," and here was the only place Albert showed _his_ affection. He supposed it was unfair to expect more from Coop when he was unwilling to do the same.

"Please, Albert, please," Coop begged as Albert began a slow back-and-forth, the heat making his head spin, the pressure making his eyes vibrate. Cooper came alive in bed, all begging and passion. "So good," he said, pressing himself back onto Albert, one hand wrapped around the headboard, the other on Albert's back, urging him forward.

Albert couldn't hope to draw this out and practically lunged forward chasing a powerful orgasm. He leaned forward and kissed his lover, enjoying the slight stubble he'd acquired over the day, the eagerness of his tongue--still tasting of coffee and curry--and the little noises that escaped as Albert's pace picked up again and again. He pulled back, unable to concentrate on kissing and fucking at the same time and let the tingling become a white-wash of sensation as Cooper's eyes fluttered uncontrollably.

He pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom before turning back to the still-suffering Cooper.

"What do you want, Dale?" he asked, voice more gravelly than usually.

Cooper tossed his head a little. Albert let himself smirk just a bit. Cooper _hated_ these kinds of questions.

"You don't get anything 'til you tell me what you want," Albert told him. And maybe it was that terrible craving for a shred of those deep emotions that were hinted at in every word and glance but hidden underneath a Boy Scout's smile and F.B.I. issued black suit that made him do this, but the hell with it. If Cooper was Spock, Albert was Dr. McCoy and he wanted whatever emotions he could wrench out of his lover.

Cooper was licking his lips and staring at Albert. His eyes were dark and intense and one hand was scrambling to take hold of Albert's.

"Just you, anything, just keep looking at me like that," Cooper said, so much less eloquent than usual that Albert's eyebrows rose. But, he did as Cooper said and just kept looking at him.

"Going to touch yourself, Dale?" he asked softly.

Cooper's breath caught and in the next moment had wrapped their joined hands around his erection. Albert let Cooper mold and shape his hand around the organ and set the pace of the stroke, eyes locked all the while on a face showing more sentiment than any cheesy grin could ever express.

His lover came harshly, eyes open, but glazed and unfocused, breathing like a thoroughbred and shaking like their bed had a Magic Fingers. Afterward, he pulled Albert close, utterly wrecked.

"Oh, my dear Albert, what you do to me," he said, and his smile was soft and genuine.

So yeah, fuck that cadet and fuck Mr. Spock. As long as he got _this_ he was just fucking fine with it, thanks very much.


End file.
